Produced by Sjaani, Beginners Projects and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: "WHEN I AM MARRIED WILL YOU SOUND YOUR TRUMPET HIGH UP NEAR THE MOON?"] The Trumpeter Swan By TEMPLE BAILEY _Author of "The Tin Soldier" "Contrary Mary" "Mistress Anne" "Glory of Youth"_ _Sonus ex nubibus te revocabit a mundo_ A sound from the clouds shall call thee from this earth Illustrated by ALICE BARBER STEPHENS THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 1920 COPYRIGHT 1920 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A Major and Two Minors 7 II. Stuffed Birds 33 III. A Wolf in the Forest 61 IV. Rain and Randy's Soul 88 V. Little Sister 108 VI. Georgie-Porgie 127 VII. Mademoiselle Midas 147 VIII. Ancestors 161 IX. "T. Branch" 181 X. A Gentleman's Lie 214 XI. Wanted--a Pedestal 245 XII. Indian--Indian 263 XIII. The Whistling Sally 289 XIV. The Dancer on the Moor 313 XV. The Trumpeter Swan 333 XVI. The Conqueror 361 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "When I am Married Will You Sound Your Trumpet High Up Near the Moon?" _Frontispiece_ "It's So Heavenly to Have You Home" 9 Becky Drew A Sharp Breath--Then Faced Dalton Squarely--"I Am Going to Marry Randy" 143 "Oh, Oh," She Whispered, "You Don't Know How I Have Wanted You" 257 THE TRUMPETER SWAN CHAPTER I A MAJOR AND TWO MINORS I It had rained all night, one of the summer rains that, beginning in a thunder-storm in Washington, had continued in a steaming drizzle until morning. There were only four passengers in the sleeper, men all of them--two in adjoining sections in the middle of the car, a third in the drawing-room, a fourth an intermittent occupant of a berth at the end. They had gone to bed unaware of the estate or circumstance of their fellow-travellers, and had waked to find the train delayed by washouts, and side-tracked until more could be learned of the condition of the road. The man in the drawing-room shone, in the few glimpses that the others had of him, with an effulgence which was dazzling. His valet, the intermittent sleeper in the end berth, was a smug little soul, with a small nose which pointed to the stars. When the door of the compartment opened to admit breakfast there was the radiance of a brocade dressing-gown, the shine of a sleek head, the staccato of an imperious voice. Randy Paine, long and lank, in faded khaki, rose, leaned over the seat of the section in front of him and drawled, "'It is not raining rain to me--it's raining roses--down----'" A pleasant laugh, and a deep voice, "Come around here and talk to me. You're a Virginian, aren't you?"